


Love is Blind (But Lasik is Cheap)

by elles_letters



Category: Psych
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-14
Updated: 2011-01-13
Packaged: 2017-12-28 19:31:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elles_letters/pseuds/elles_letters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlton knows it's selfish of him, but he can't help but hope that Shawn never gains his sight back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's March, the weather is gloomy and Carlton is in the hospital— _again_. At least this time it's due to a minor strain of bacteria rather than a serious threat to his health. A virulent infection say the doctors, as a result of an emergency appendectomy he'd undergone a week ago. This stay is marked by long stretches of bed rest as he waits around for the antibiotics in his IV drip to empty. It's soul-crushingly dull, and he sorely regrets not calling in some assignments from the museum, but it's one of his better hospital experiences.

Not like his last one.

Not like five years ago when a pounding headache had sent him to the hospital's ER in near hysterics, begging the doctors to give him anything—drugs or a solid hit to his temple—that would knock him out and take away the pain.

His head had been scanned, poked and biopsied over a period of two months before doctors found the cause: cancer. A growth was found sprouting out of his sinus cavity and reaching for his brain.

The doctors tried blasting it away with radiation, then poisoning it with chemotherapy. In the end, a surgeon had to crack open his skull and remove the mass.

But the tumor hadn't been all they taken. The growth had metastasized so thoroughly to his skull that when the surgeons had removed it, there was no other option but to take half of Carlton's face with it.

* * *

  
Carlton has just finished his morning IV drip when his nurse comes flouncing into his room. He normally feels awkward and uncomfortable around her kind of people ("her kind of people" as in charismatic, outgoing, _cute_ kind of people), but it's hard for him to hold any sort of negative feeling toward someone who can look at him without being turned off by his face. Since his bout with cancer, members of the medical community are the one group of people Carlton feels comfortable around. Most view his face with clinical detachment brought on by years of experience with deformities and injuries; Carlton finds it refreshing.

"Good morning, Carlton," she greets him, all of spring's sunshine in her voice.

Her tone is even more cheery than normal, making Carlton suspicious of her visit. His morning vitals have already been recorded and he's not due for another drip for six more hours. He's staying in one of the busiest hospitals in the city, so she's not likely to be stopping by for a social visit.

"What do you want, Juliet?" he grouses. His attitude is just for show and she knows this.

She gives an exaggerated pout at his tone, but it is quickly replaced by another radiant smile. She walks over to the empty bed on the other side of his room and begins fiddling with the monitoring equipment.

"You're getting a roommate," she says easily.

Carlton's stomach twists in fear. "What?" he asks, panic causing his voice to come out a bit higher than he'd like. Carlton has made enough friends among the nursing staff to ensure that, even though he's not paying for a private room, the other bed is kept vacant. "You're putting me with someone else?"

"I know you like your privacy, Carlton, but all this wet weather has been keeping us busy. We're seeing a lot of cases of pneumonia. There's not another empty bed on the floor."

"There's no where else in the hospital you can put him? Geriatrics? The ICU? Maternity?"

"You're not staying for too much longer, so it'll only be for a few weeks. It won't be that bad."

" _Weeks_?" Carlton grips the handrails of his bed until his knuckles turn white. "He'll be here that long?"

Juliet turns from the monitors to look at him. "I'm sorry," she says and for a moment her eyes melt with pity. Carlton has to fight the instinct to turn his face away.

He's overreacting and he knows it. The possibility of meeting strangers tended to rile him up, but it's not like he's never dealt with it before. Just never in a 12-foot by 12-foot room where he and said stranger would spend the next few weeks (weeks!) eating, sleeping and recuperating with nothing else to look at except each other and bad daytime TV .

He takes a deep breath and attempts to put up a calm front. "When's he coming?"

"He's still in recovery right now, but they should be moving him up after dinner," Juliet answers as she comes closer to check the machine recording Carlton's ever increasing heartbeat.

Dinner is served around 5 p.m.; that only gave Carlton three more hours of precious solitude.

He clears his tightening throat. "Will you come warn me before they bring him up?" Carlton asks quietly.

Juliet ceases her puttering to give Carlton another look, one with more warmth and less pity. She places her hand on his. "Don't worry so much, Carlton."

She gives his hand a squeeze before beaming at him and breezing out the room.

Carlton feels like throwing up.

* * *

  
Carlton spends the next hour sitting in his hospital bed fretting over the man who'll soon be brought up to his— _their_ —room.

He can picture how their first meeting will go down, referencing the thousands upon thousands of reactions he's received from strangers over the years. The man will be wheeled in by an orderly who will have forgotten to warn him of his ugly roommate. And of course, with Carlton's luck, his roommate won't just be normal looking, he'll be gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous that made Carlton feel insecure and inadequate even before his face was messed up. The man will look over at his new roommate expecting to be greeted by another normal and whole person, when he'll see Carlton. He'll see Carlton and his look of polite greeting will either become disgusted horror or condescending pity. Five years since losing his face and Carlton still can't decide which of the two is worse.

During the second hour he rises from his bed, careful of the stitches in his abdomen, to go to the small restroom. He washes his hands after relieving himself and looks up to stare at his face in the mirror above the sink.

His forehead is smooth and his hair is cut short, a style he's questioned over the years. He's averse to longer hair, thinking it unkempt and messy, but he knows longer hair would be easier to hide behind. His eyes used to be his most prized feature; now, his good right eye—blue as a robin's egg—glares out at the world, but the effect is ruined by his sunken left eye. His nose stands proudly over his the jagged crater of his left cheek. The right side of his mouth is held in a tight line that gives way to the slack-jawed frown of the left. He is, he knows, hideous.

For just a second, Carlton mourns. Mourns for the loss of his face, his loss of normalcy and his loss of youthful attractiveness that all people of a certain age seem to possess. He's tired of the stares he receives from passersby. He's tired of the shrieks he receives from children. He's tired of doing his grocery shopping at two in the morning to avoid crowds. He's tired of having to seclude himself in his office whenever visitors are touring the museum. He's tired of having to mentally prepare himself for the simple act of meeting a new person.

Carlton turns away from the mirror and puts his hands to his face. It feels worse than it looks: jagged surgery scars and drooping flesh that sits on a face with no bone to support it.

He returns to his bed and spends the final hour trying not to cry out and curse God for turning him into a monster.

* * *

  
Juliet stops by in the middle of his sour mood to hook him up to his IV. She's polite enough to ignore his red and swollen eyes, but is kind enough to ask if he wants the curtain between the two beds pulled closed before his new roommate arrives.

"For privacy," she tells him.

He nods, feeling ridiculous at how upset he's become over one sick man he hasn't even meet yet. She pulls the curtain closed, then proceeds to close all the blinds on that side of the room. She gives Carlton a smile and a wink before bustling out of the room.

Juliet is gone not ten minutes before his new roommate is wheeled into the room. The first thing Carlton notices is that the man is stunning. Despite whatever it was that brought him to the hospital, his skin radiates a healthy glow. He either hasn't fixed his hair since being admitted to the hospital or he wears it in that meticulously mussed style that Carlton couldn't even hope to pull off. (Carlton assumes its the latter as it goes well with the stubble covering the man's jaw). His full lips are quirked in a cocky smirk.

The second thing Carlton notices are the bandages covering his handsome roommate's eyes.

His new roommate is blind.

* * *

  
It's a quarter past two in the morning, but Carlton's mind is too busy to sleep. He turns to look at the curtain, straining in the dark to see the silhouette of his new roommate. The man hasn't said a word since the orderly wheeled him in and Carlton assumes he's asleep.

Carlton wonders briefly about Juliet's role in his new roommate assignment. She _had_ told him not to worry so much. Seems like his favorite nurse had been looking out for him.

"Thank you, Juliet," he says aloud, chuckling to himself quietly.

"Who's Juliet?" a voice says from behind the curtain.

Carlton starts. "Sorry," he says. "I thought you were asleep."

The other man is silent and Carlton assumes that's the end of the conversation. He settles himself in his bed and tries to get comfortable.

"Who's Juliet?" the other man asks again.

"I thought you went back to sleep," Carlton replies.

"Obviously, I'm didn't," the man replied. "Who's Juliet?"

"A nurse. One of the nurses on this floor."

"And why are you thanking her?"

"No reason," Carlton says quickly. "You should go to sleep. I'm sorry for bothering you."

"I can't sleep," the man says quietly.

"Are you in pain? The nurses can give you something."

"No."

"Afraid of hospitals?"

"No."

"Afraid of the dark?" Carlton asks sarcastically.

The man doesn't answer. A few moments later Carlton hears a bitter laugh and Carlton flushes as he realizes what he said.

"I'm sorry," Carlton rushes to say. "I forgot—"

The man cuts him off. "It's nothing."

They sit in awkward silence, listening to the beeping of their heart monitors.

"Why aren't you asleep?" the man asks.

"Not tired," he answers truthfully. "Bit jumpy tonight, I guess."

"Don't like hospitals?"

"No more than anybody else."

"Why are you here now?"

"Infection," Carlton replies. "Nothing too serious."

"How long have you been here?"

"About a week."

"And you're already on a first-name basis with the nurses?" the man teases. "You must be a real lady killer."

Carlton decides to ignore the remark. Innocent or not, he doesn't like to be reminded of his incompetence with the fairer sex.  "You're kind of talky for so late at night?"

The man laughs again, and it's much sweeter than before. "Just trying to keep you talking."

"Keep me talking? Why?"

"Don't take this the wrong way; I like your voice."

Carlton wasn't expecting that. "My voice?"

"I don't like hospitals and now," his roommate falters, his breath hitching, before he continues, "and now I can't see anything and I feel so lost. I need somebody to talk to. Somebody to keep me focused. Your voice is very soothing."

"Oh," Carlton says simply. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

The room falls quiet again. Carlton wants to know what took the sight from the man's eyes, but knows better than to ask.

"So," the man begins again, "what's with you and the nurses?"

"Nothing," Carlton snaps.

"You're kinda touchy."

"And you're kinda annoying."

"Believe it or not, I get that a lot."

"I believe it."

"You have to be nice," he tells him. "I complimented your voice."

Carlton snorts. "You can't see me. What else could you have complimented me on?"

The room falls silent and Carlton once again realizes too late how assholey his comment sounds. Then he hears a quiet chuckle.

"What's your name, deep-voiced roommate?" the man asks.

"Carlton. Yours?"

"Shawn."

* * *

  
Shawn, Carlton learns, is a computer genius who makes a living doing online cartoon animation of all things. He shares a house with his best friend who he's known since they were both getting beat up by the same schoolyard bully. ("In my defense," Shawn tells him one morning, "the guy bullied Gus first. He wouldn't have bothered with me if Gus hadn't kept hanging around me.") He's single but must be well-admired because he receives a bouquet of flowers or balloons or cookies every other day.

He's also a horrible mechanic.

"I was working on the gas line of a '68 Mustang," he tells Carlton as they eat their breakfast of dry pancakes and runny eggs, privacy curtain pulled aside. "I remembered to empty the fuel tank but forgot to disconnect it. There must have been a bit left in the line because when I went to test the starter…kaboom!"

Carlton is afraid to say anything, ask anything, because this is the first time Shawn's shared the details of his injury in the week he's moved into Carlton's hospital room.

"I somehow avoided most of the flames, but not the debris. My eyes itch more than anything." Shawn lifts a hand to his bandages and begins patting at his eyes.

"Stop it," Carlton scolds him.

Shawn removes his hands from his face before attempting to glare at Carlton. Failing that, he settles for wiggling his face around underneath his thick bandages. "My father had a fit," he grumbles. "I'll bet you anything he'll make me pay for the car."

Carlton snickers.

"You laugh, I'm serious," Shawn pouts. Carlton snickers again.

"How are my two favorite patients this morning?" Juliet sings as she enters the room.

"Better now that you're here," Shawn replies with a flirtatious leer in his voice. Carlton's roommate seems to have developed a thing for their bubbly nurse and Carlton doesn't understand it. Shawn can't see Juliet so he has no idea what she looks like. Either Shawn's been asking around about Juliet or he hits on anything that moves.

"Shawn," Juliet begins, a seductive lilt to her voice, "I've got a great opportunity for you."

"You, me and a hot tub?" Shawn answers back.

Juliet giggles a giggle Carlton has never heard her giggle before. He wishes he could disappear. He wishes that the floor would open up and swallow him whole or that he'd choke on the thick pancake he's chewing and have to get rushed to the OR for a tracheotomy where he won't have to watch his attractive roommate hit on his equally attractive nurse.

"No. The doctor's arranged for you to meet with one of the hospital's occupational therapists. She's someone who can help you overcome your recent injuries."

Shawn remains silent, all traces of his previous playful mood gone from his face.

"Shawn?" Juliet inquires when the other man doesn't answer.

"No, thank you." Shawn answers.

"What?"

"I appreciate your offer for assistance, but I won't be needing it," Shawn says with unnecessary politeness.

"Shawn, I don't think that's a wise decision."

"Regardless, Nurse O'Hara, it's the decision I'm making."

They stare at each other (only Shawn's head is tilted a few degrees too high), Juliet wearing a look of concern and Shawn's mouth set stubborn determination.

"Shawn," Juliet begins, her voice firm but kind, "I understand you're scared but you can't pretend nothing happened. Even if your blindness is temporary, you need help to make it through this."

Shawn says nothing as he leans back in his raised bed and resumes eating.

Juliet sighs. "Just promise me you'll think about it. Both the doctor and I think this will be good for you." Juliet turns to acknowledge Carlton before she leaves the room.

Carlton looks at his roommate. Shawn's face is unreadable. His mouth is set in a thin line and the bandages over his eyes hide any clue as to what he's thinking.

Carlton clears his throat. "Guess this means no hot tub?" he jokes nervously.

Shawn ignores him.

"Don't be upset, Shawn. She means well."

"She thinks I need to learn how to be blind," he replies quietly.

"She just wants to help you."

"I didn't ask for any help."

"It couldn't hurt to just see what they have to say."

"I don't want to hear what they have to say."

Carlton can understand Shawn's refusal. Doctors had suggested he see a psychologist after he had his tumor removed to help him "cope with the emotional stresses caused by his significant change in appearance." Accepting help made the problem more real. And learning how to cope meant accepting that his condition could be permanent.

Sill, learning to make it through life without the one's vision is an entirely different matter than learning to deal with an ugly new face.

"Therapy isn't that bad, Shawn," Carlton tells him gently. "They just want to help you adjust."

"Well, when they offer to help you adjust to your _infection_ ," Shawn snaps, his tone resentful, "you be sure to take them up on it."

Carlton reacts to the barb as if he'd been slapped; he feels the blood as it rushes to his face and nearly chokes as he swallows a doughy lump of food.

They finish their breakfast in silence.

* * *

  
Carlton can't sleep again. It's three in the morning and their room is uncomfortably chilly, but that's not what's keeping him up. It's the fact that he and Shawn haven't spoken since their therapy discussion at breakfast.

Shawn had remained silent for the rest of the day, ignoring Carlton, as well as the nurses and doctors. But that's not enough to keep Carlton awake for hours. He knows Shawn is just reacting out of fear of his condition. What's keeping Carlton awake is the question of why Shawn's coldness toward him hurts as much as it does.

In the week they had been roommates, Carlton had shared more with Shawn than he had with any one in the last five years. They'd talked hospital nurses, court procedural television dramas and favorite local eateries. Shawn had told him about his hard-to-please father and Carlton had told Shawn about his jackass co-workers. And as they spoke, Carlton realized he'd missed having someone close to confide in. He'd cut himself off from his small group of friends after his surgery and found himself regretting that decision. He thought back to his week in the hospital before Shawn came and realized that most of his misery wasn't brought on by boredom, but by loneliness.

Suddenly, Shawn's voice cut through his thoughts.

"What?" Carlton asks cautiously.

"I said, I'm sorry."

"For?"

Shawn sighs. "You know what for. I'm sorry I snapped at you. It was wrong; you were only trying to help."

Carlton sits up in his bed. "You were upset. I understand."

"I shouldn't have taken it out on you. You're the only person keeping me from going crazy around here."

Carlton feels his heart speed up at Shawn's easy confession. "Well, I forgive you. Don't worry about it."

Shawn remains silent for a few seconds, but Carlton can hear the sound of his increasingly heavy breathing.

"I don't want to be blind," Shawn whispers. Carlton hates the fear he hears in his voice.

"I know," he tells him gently. "But avoiding the possibility doesn't mean it won't happen."

"I know."

"Everything will be fine," Carlton tells him. He knows that it's trite and that everything may not be fine, but he has to do something to cheer Shawn up.

"Yeah"

"You're only scared because you don't know how to handle living without your sight. Therapy will help you get over your fear."

"Yeah."

"You want to go home, right? Live independently?"

"Yeah…" Shawn mumbles sleepily.

Carlton turns to look at his roommate whose head is lolling about his neck as he drifts off. "Are you going to sleep?"

"Yes," Shawn slurs.

Carlton gives a small chuckle. "Want me to keep talking?"

Shawn makes a sleepy sort of snort that Carlton takes as a "yes." Carlton then spends the next hour telling Shawn that even if he's permanently blind, he's still funny, warm, kind, charming, beautiful and quite possibly the most amazing person he's ever met.

Later that night as he listens to the sound of Shawn's even breathing, Carlton wonders how much of what he told Shawn was said out of a desire to comfort him and how much was based on truth.

* * *

  
"Come over here," Shawn orders him a few days later as Carlton finishes his antibiotic drip.

"Can we say 'please'?" Carlton replies sardonically.

"Yes," Shawn answers shortly. "Come over here," he repeats. He is practically bouncing in his bed and a grin is playing about his lips.

"What for?"

"I want to try something the therapist told me about."

Carlton usually doesn't take orders from people, but today, he finds himself eager to keep Shawn happy. The first day Shawn had therapy, he skipped his appointment. The second day, he had come back full of nothing but scorn for his therapist, whom he called an "overpaid, hand-holding, blind baby-sitter." Today had been Shawn's third day with the therapist and it's the first time Carlton has heard his roommate even talk about the actual therapy.

Carlton eases himself out of his bed and pulls a chair from the corner of the room. He sits and scoots closer to Shawn's bed. "Well, I'm here. What did you learn in school today?"

Shawn smiles and begins to feel around the air for Carlton's face.

"What are you doing?" Carlton asks, voice tight, as one of Shawn's hands nearly smacks him upside the head.

"I want to touch your face," Shawn says easily.

Carlton dodges another smack. "My face?"

"One of the things I learned was how to use my other senses to compensate for my lack of sight. I can figure out what things look like through touch. I want to know what you look like."

Carlton's heart nearly stops. "Why?" he whispers.

Shawn doesn't pick up on his discomfort. "Why do you think?"

Carlton grabs one of Shawn's flailing hands and holds it between both of his. "What do you think I look like?" Carlton is surprised to hear himself asking. He has no idea why he'd ever want to know such a thing. True, he may be curious as to what Shawn thinks he looks like, but he knows whatever answer Shawn gives will only hurt him.

"I have no idea, that's why I want to touch you."

_I want to touch you._ Carlton thinks he'll die because he hasn't breathed nor felt his pulse in nearly thirty seconds. Shawn is cruel for getting his emotions and cardiovascular system so reeved up.

"Carlton?" Shawn sits up, his bandaged covered eyes turned toward Carlton. "I know you're still there; you're cutting off the circulation to my hand."

Carlton relaxes his grip. "You must have some idea of what you think I look like. What do you picture when you think of me?" Carlton doesn't know why he keeps pushing this topic. He must be a masochist.

"If I tell you, can I touch your face?"

"Sure," Carlton says roughly.

Shawn sighs and cocks his head. "A lot of what I think of you comes from your voice," he begins. "It's deep and confident, so I assume you're tall and in shape. You said you were Irish so...red hair?"

"Black," Carlton corrects.

Shawn shrugs. "Close enough. And you must be handsome. Juliet and the rest of the nurses love you."

Carlton wants to cry because he more than anything wants to be the man Shawn has described.

"Can I touch you now?"

"Fine," Carlton sighs, but he doesn't release the hand he holds. Shawn lifts his free hand and feels around for Carlton's face. Carlton offers his good side to Shawn's hand and leans into his touch.

Shawn's fingers are soft and nimble. They walk across his face skimming his left eyebrow, smoothing his forehead. Carlton closes his eyes and relishes the feel of warm fingers on his face. They drift over his hairline and dance across the shell of one of his rather large ears.

"Do these things stick out?" Shawn jokes gently as he give the said organs a small tug.

"A little," Carlton mumbles.

Shawn's fingers make their way down Carlton's jawline and over his chin. Carlton feels his breath hitch as they glide over his lips, as gentle as a breeze.

Carlton is so caught up in the feel of Shawn touching him that he doesn't notice Shawn drift closer to the right side of his face until it's nearly too late. He feels the pads of Shawn's fingers as they skim dangerously close to his sunken cheek. He grabs Shawn's hand, causing the other man to frown down at him.

"What?" Shawn asks softly. He leans in closer, so close that Carlton can smell his cinnamon-flavored toothpaste on his breath. "What's wrong?" he asks again.

"Shawn," Carlton begins, not really sure what he can tell the other man that won't insinuate he's hiding something. "I—"

A throat clears. "Um...time for lunch, guys."

Carlton drops Shawn's hands and turns to see an orderly with a food cart standing in the doorway giving them both an awkward look. Carlton pulls away from Shawn and hurries back to his bed. Shawn looks over in Carlton's direction, a confused frown still sitting on his face.

They're served their lunch (rubbery spaghetti with a rock-hard roll), but Carlton can't eat. His face is still warm from where Shawn's fingers pressed against it. He knows he shouldn't dwell on how nice the man's fingers felt against his skin. He knows this, but it doesn't stop his heart from beating faster as he retraces the path Shawn's fingers took across his face.

"Are you listening to me?" Shawn says, interrupting his thoughts.

"Uh...no," Carlton admits. "Sorry."

Shawn chuckles affectionately. "I said, I don't think it's possible for this food to get any worse."

Carlton is still too engrossed by the lingering sensation of Shawn's fingers on his face to think of anything to say, so he just gives a mumble of agreement.

"Maybe I can talk Gus into sneaking us something that's actually edible when he drops by tomorrow."

Carlton freezes. "You're expecting visitors?" he asks.

"Just Gus. I've told you about him," Shawn says. "I want you to meet him."

Carlton remains silent.

"Carlton?"

"Sounds great," he finally replies. "Meeting your best friend. That sounds great."

Carlton doesn't know what type of person Shawn's friend Gus is. He could be the kindest, gentlest, warmest soul to exist since Mother Theresa's church-going grandmother. But Carlton does know this: There's no way in hell he's going to risk having someone tell Shawn the truth about him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlton knows it's selfish of him, but he can't help but hope that Shawn never gains his sight back. For[](http://alli-bialystock.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://alli-bialystock.livejournal.com/) **alli_bialystock**  who wanted Insecure!Lassiter and a bit for myself who wanted to write something sappy and cliche. 

Another night, another bout of insomnia.

Shawn wants Carlton to meet his best friend. For anyone else, this would be nothing. A simple meeting of a friend of a friend. But for Carlton, the idea is torturous.

He's surprised he hasn't had to deal with this before. Just because Carlton has no one to visit him doesn't mean he should expect the same for Shawn. From all evidence (the flowery, sugary, Hallmark-y evidence crowding Shawn's side of the room), Shawn is a popular guy. Family, friends and girlfriends should have been dropping by on a daily basis.

He has no right to want to keep Shawn all to himself. What's more, he has no idea where this desire to keep Shawn even comes from. So what if Shawn's the only person he's opened up to in five years? So what if Shawn's behavior borders on flirting? So what if Shawn is responsible for the contentment Carlton has felt as of late? All that doesn't give him the right to be so possessive of the man.

Carlton turns his head to watch Shawn as he sleeps. He looks as peaceful as he makes Carlton feel. His chest rises and falls slowly with each deep breath he takes. His hair is tousled over the bandages covering his eyes. Carlton wonders what Shawn's eyes look like. They must be gorgeous; the rest of him sure as hell is. They probably sparkle when he talks and are bright green or bright blue or some other bright beautiful color.

He imagines those eyes looking at him. His face, still sunken and ugly, looks handsome reflected in the other man's eyes. And (because this is Carlton's dream) instead of hardening in disgust, those eyes will look at him with understanding. Warmth, even. And he'll smile and Carlton will finally allow someone to touch _that_ side of his face. For once Carlton's face won't matter. And maybe, Shawn will look at him and tell him, "I think you're perfect."

A sharp pain in his chest reminds Carlton of why he never spent much time with fantasies. They tended to hurt more than reality.

* * *

The next morning, Carlton is groggy and his mind is out of sorts. He oversleeps, missing Shawn before the other man heads out for his therapy session.

He slogs through a breakfast of soggy corn flakes and dry toast. The quiet of the room is suffocating. Carlton wants Shawn to hurry back and start rambling about color wheels and fruit-flavored smoothies and all the other inane necessities he rambles about. Television and his sad supply of books offer no relief. He's grateful for the distraction Juliet provides when she stops by to give him his IV.

"You seem out of it today," she asks. She's in nurse-mode and Carlton knows not to try and give her any bullshit.

"I didn't sleep well last night."

She frowns before taking a hold of his chin and feeling his lymph nodes. "Were you in pain? Too hot? Too cold?"

"Nothing like that. Just had a lot to think about."

"I'll order you up some sleep meds," she replies curtly as she checks his pulse. "You're here to rest; I want to make sure you do." She gives him a reassuring smile before putting his file away. "I'll come back and check on you in a little while."

"Juliet," he calls out before she leaves the room. "Uh...Do you all need any more tests from me? I can meet any doctors you need me to around noon today."

Juliet turns to look at him, confusion in her eyes. "No. Is there anything in particular you have questions about?"

"No," Carlton says quickly. "Just wondering." Juliet gives him one final questioning look before turning to go.

"Hello, Nurse Jules," a cheery voice calls out. An orderly wheels Shawn into their room. In his lap sits a folded red-and-silver cane.

"Good morning, Shawn," Juliet greets him.

"If I bought you leather scrubs, would the hospital let you wear them?" he asks in mock seriousness.

"Goodbye, Shawn," Juliet says easily as she sails out the door.

Shawn turns to smile at Carlton. "She's fun."

"Yeah," Carlton replies listlessly.

Shawn cocks his head. "You okay?" he asks as he shoos the orderly away. Shawn is apparently not ready to be helped to his bed. "I missed you at breakfast."

"I'm just tired," Carlton replies. "I didn't sleep well last night."

"Why didn't you wake me? I would have kept you company."

"I didn't want to bother you. I've been keeping you up late enough."

"You're never a bother," Shawn says softly. "I wouldn't have minded. You've helped me get to sleep plenty of times."

"Like I said It's not a problem."

Shawn takes the note of finality in Carlton's voice as a hint and drops the subject. "Remember what I told you yesterday?" he asks, as if there was any way Carlton could forget. "About my friend visiting?"

"Yeah," Carlton replies. He hopes the hitch in his voice comes off as interest rather than anxiety.

"Well, he's coming by today and he's looking forward to meeting you."

"Sounds great." No, it really doesn't. "When's he coming?"

"Noon. We're going out to lunch."

"'Out?'"

Shawn grins. "'Out' to the hospital cafeteria. Want to join us?"

No, he really doesn't. "Sure," Carlton lies.

The grin blooms into a wide smile. "I'm glad." Shawn unfolds the cane sitting on his lap and begins to rise from the wheelchair. Carlton throws off his blankets in order to get up and assist the other man.

"That's very gentlemanly of you Carlton, but I got it." Shawn smirks as he makes his way over to Carlton.

"You heard me getting up?"

"I'm getting better at this blind thing, don't you think?"

"It would seem so."

 "I've just decided to try and be more positive about things." Shawn settles himself on the edge of Carlton's bed. "Turns out, there are a few perks to this whole not-seeing thing."

"Such as?"

"I could get a dog. Not just any dog, a super dog."

"You told me you hated dogs," Carlton retorts. The topic had come up in one of their late-night discussions during which they had debated which was the more corny comic strip: _Marmaduke_ or _Garfield_. (After twenty minutes, they agreed on _Ziggy_.)

"I hate _caring_ for dogs. This dog would care for me. I can also touch people without permission."

"I don't think you can do that."

"Really? I'm pretty sure there's a law. That and I can wear sunglasses any time of day, indoors or out."

"That hardly sounds like it's worth being blind."

"I also got to meet you. And I guess that was worth it." Shawn says it so casually, that Carlton has no idea if the man is serious or not. Seductive and flirtatious lines slip off Shawn's lips all the time, but this one sounds different than the cheese he feeds Juliet.

"Carlton?"

"Um...yeah. I'm here," he mumbles.

Shawn grins and raises his hand for Carlton to take. Carlton grabs it and holds it between both of his. "I just want you to know how much easier you've made it for me here. I thought I'd lose my mind. I mean, I had no idea if I'd ever...If I'd ever..." Shawn's grip tightens.

"Shawn, you don't have to—"

"Yes, I do. When I came to in that ambulance, I couldn't see. I mean, I couldn't see _anything_. I was terrified. I've never been afraid of the dark. But after...you know...there was so much pain and so much damn noise. They shuffled me from doctor to doctor and nobody could tell me anything. Then, they put me in here with you. And you actually listened to me. Told me I'd be okay. I'll never forget that."

"Why are you telling me all this, Shawn?" Carlton whispers. What he means is _What do you want from me?_

Shawn gives Carlton's hand a squeeze. "Next time you can't sleep, Carly, wake me up. I promise I won't mind."

Carlton exhales slowly. "That's all?"

"For now." His free hand flutters above Carlton's face before resting tenderly on the smooth skin of his good cheek. Carlton flinches, not used to being touched so intimately, but soon relaxes into Shawn's palm.

"See? I didn't ask permission," Shawn tells him, his voice smug.

Carlton closes his eyes and mumbles, "That's okay. I don't mind."

Shawn chuckles. "I told you. Perks."

* * *

The stairwell Carlton's been sitting in is cold and in need of a new paint job, however it has great acoustics. Carlton can hear Shawn and Gus talking from their room two doors down from the stairwell entrance.

_"Shawn, you just made that up."_

_"No, dude, it totally happened. I swear."_

The plans for avoiding the meeting with the best of Shawn's friends ran the gamut from pathetically simple (pretending to sleep) to unnecessarily complex (breaking into the hospital pharmacy, stealing a few hits of something only slightly lethal, overdosing and spending a few nights in the ICU). But in the end, Carlton had decided to go with his cowardly loser plan (leaving the room when Shawn wasn't looking and hiding until Gus left). It was pitiful.

"Carlton?" Juliet's voice rings out from the top of the stairwell.

He turns and quickly shushes her. "Lower your voice," he whispers loudly. "I don't want anyone to know I'm here."

Juliet descends the stairs, stopping a step behind Carlton. "What are you doing?" she asks.

Carlton certainly can't tell her he's been eavesdropping on Shawn and his best friend for the last forty-five minutes. She'd probably recommend something insane like meeting the guy.

"I just needed some personal space," he tells her. It's true enough.

"Personal space? Sitting on these chilly stairs?"

"I'm not picky about my space."

A particularly loud chorus of laughter erupts from his room and carries down the hall. Juliet leans closer to the door and listens as an annoyed voice rings out.

_"Shawn, you did not empower the geriatric unit by leading them on a carefree trip to the docks for a boat ride. That was a_ Simpsons _episode."_

_"Well, we'll just have to agree to disagree."_

"Shawn has company," she says to herself. "You know who it is?" she asks Carlton.

"A friend of his." Carlton answers abruptly.

"Ah," she replies. "What's he like?"

Carlton gives a shrug. "Not sure. Haven't met him." He hadn't meet him, but he did see him. Dressed in tasteful designer clothes, Gus was just a good-looking as Shawn. It was easy to see why they were such good friends. Shawn got obvious pleasure riling Gus up with his ridiculous stories and, from what Carlton could hear, Gus found it equally fun calling Shawn out on his wild claims.

"Shawn's friend came to visit him and you didn't meet him?"

"Didn't feel a need to."

"'Didn't feel a need to?' What does that mean?" He can feel Juliet staring at him and he knows he has to remain absolutely still or she'll see right through him.

"Carlton?" she repeats.

He turns his face away, moving only a few millimeters. It's enough.

"Oh, Carlton," Juliet breathes.

"Please, Juliet," he says bitterly. "I don't want to hear it."

Juliet may be cute and bubbly but Carlton knows once those cute bubbles burst, she can be as protective as a mother cat. She won't tolerate Carlton thinking so poorly of himself.

"I know what you're going to say. 'Shawn's a good guy. A real friend won't care about something so shallow. People are nicer than I think.' I've heard it all before and it's all a bunch a bullshit."

"Oh really?"

"Yes, really," Carlton's voice breaks as all the hurt he's carried for the last five years comes rushing to the surface, threatening to blow apart his fragile self-control. "People say those things just to make themselves feel better. Nobody means it."

"I mean it," Juliet says sincerely. "And Shawn might too if you give him a chance."

Carlton shakes his head. "No. It's better this way."

"Carlton, your face means you're a survivor. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"I don't want Shawn to think of me as a 'survivor'. I want him to think I'm normal; I don't want him to view me as some sort of...of freak."

"You're not a freak," Juliet says defensively.

"I'm hardly the All-American boy, now am I?" Carlton snaps back.

Juliet is silent as she lowers herself on the step next to Carlton. "I can understand what you're going through, Carlton."

"Do you really?"

She ignores the question. "But you're being too hard on yourself. I've seen how Shawn is with you. He likes you for you. Do you think he'll stop liking you just because of your face."

"It's happened before."

This takes Juliet by surprise. "What?"

"I had friends before my face fell apart, you know," Carlton studies his hands. He can't bear to look at Juliet. He's never seen her pity-face and he wants to keep it that way. "Nobody came out and said it was because of my face. Most of them just felt too uncomfortable to be around me anymore. I don't want that, Juliet. I won't give Shawn a reason to push me away." He breathes heavily as the full force of his emotions sweeps through him. "I don't want him to hate me," he finishes, his voice catching.

Juliet waits for him to calm his breathing. When he does, she stands and leans down to give Carlton a hug.

"Please, Carlton," she whispers, "give people a chance."

She bounds up the stairs and out the door before he can respond.

* * *

"Where were you?" Shawn asks when Carlton returns to their room. His voice wavers with just the smallest amount of hurt, which causes Carlton to feel like a coward _and_ a jackass. "Gus was here for three hours. We waited, but he had to leave and get back to work."

"Last-minute doctor's appointment," Carlton tells him, the lie coming too easily. "The doctor wanted to check my stitches and check on how I'm doing. I tried to hurry but...," he finishes lamely.

"Oh," Shawn answers. "Too bad. Gus brought peach smoothies. We had one for you but I drank it."

Carlton can't help but smile at that. "Thanks for thinking of me."

"I like thinking of you," Shawn says seriously.

Carlton wants Shawn to stop with the flattery, stop making these endearing remarks. They confuse him and make his heart hurt. He doesn't know what to make of these hints that they might be able to be something more than hospital roommates.

"Carlton?" he hears Shawn ask.

"Yeah?"

"When are you leaving?"

"The hospital? If things go well, I'll only have to be here three more weeks."

"So soon?"

"Is something wrong?"

"I was just thinking about our missed lunch. You kinda owe me. Maybe once we get out of here, you, me and Gus could try and meet up sometime."

"I don't know..."

"Okay," Shawn replies, undaunted. "How about just you and me?"

Carlton's mouth goes dry. _You and me._ Shawn and him. That could be possible. Possible, if he could keep Shawn from wanting to go out in public or from introducing him to anymore of his friends. So actually, it's not possible at all. "I…can't."

Shawn face falls. "Why not?"

_Why not?_ Why not? Carlton needs a why not.

_Because I'm married._ Too presumptuous

_Because I'm swamped with work._ Too flimsy.

"Because I'm…moving. Away. Far away. To Washington D.C. To work in the National Gallery of Art." Carlton is becoming extremely disgusted with his new found comfort with lying to people's faces.

"Washington D.C.?" Shawn's voice sounds doubtful, but without his sight he can't pick up enough clues to determine whether Carlton's telling the truth. Carlton has never been more grateful for the bandages covering Shawn's eyes than at that moment.

"I got a fellowship—well, me and a couple other guys from the museum—to assist with the acquisition of new pieces. It'll be for about a year...or longer. It could be permanent. I'm not really sure yet."

"Oh," Shawn replies softly. "When are you leaving?"

"Immediately. Right after I get out of here. Like that week."

"That's too bad."

"Yeah," Carlton says past the lump in his throat. "Too bad."

"I had a surprise for you."

That catches Carlton off-guard. "A surprise? What kind of surprise?"

Shawn beams at him with happiness. There's only one thing that could make him smile that bright.

"The doctor stopped by while Gus was here," Shawn says excitedly. Carlton doesn't remember hearing that; it must have happened during his talk with Juliet. "He said the tests show that I'm healing better than they expected and he doesn't think anything's been damaged permanently. And guess what?"

"What?" Carlton asks, but he already knows "what." He already knows he's going to hate what Shawn has to say next.

"He says I'm going to be able to see again, Carlton. I'm getting my sight back."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlton knows it's selfish of him, but he can't help but hope that Shawn never gains his sight back. For [](http://alli-bialystock.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://alli-bialystock.livejournal.com/) **alli_bialystock**   who wanted Insecure!Lassiter and a bit for myself who wanted to write something sappy and cliche. 

"Carlton? Are you angry with me?" Shawn asks one morning. He speaks hesitantly, as if he's afraid of the answer.

"No!" Carlton tells him quickly. "Why would you think that?"

Shawn shrugs. "I don't know...you just haven't seemed like you want to talk to me lately."

Carlton sighs. He can't deny that he's been putting some distance between Shawn and himself the past week. But it most certainly wasn't out of anger. It was out of fear. Truth was, every time Shawn left the room, Carlton half expected the other man to return with his bandages removed and his vision restored.

Shawn's announcement had been a harsh wake-up call. Shawn's blindness was temporary; Carlton's hideousness was permanent. Carlton could not forget that the easy relationship between the two would not survive outside their hospital room.

"Carlton?" Shawn asks again.

"Yeah...uh, sorry. I'm...sorry. I've just been preoccupied. I've had a lot on my mind lately."

"Worried about the move?"

Carlton can feel his face flush with shame. He regrets telling Shawn that lie. He wants to ask him to never bring it up again, but that would only raise more questions.

"You could say that," he mumbles.

Shawn smiles. "You worry too much, Carlton. I know you'll do fine."

Shawn's voice exuded trust and confidence. Carlton can almost feel his conscience smacking him in the back of the head. "How do you know that?"

"You're a smart guy, Carlton. I know that much."

"Please, Shawn—"

"No, Carlton. Let me help you for once." Shawn turns in his bed in an effort to face Carlton. "Honestly, you're too hard on yourself. You're smart. You're good with people."

Carlton can't contain the scoff that escapes his throat. "'Good with people?' You can't believe that."

"Of course I do. You know all the doctors. All the nurses adore you ... I'm pretty crazy about you, too." Shawn says the last part quietly.

Carlton smiles at that. But his happy mood quickly sours at the sound of raucous laughter.

“Ewing, I see the Man on the Moon," a harsh voice shouts out. More laughter follows.

 _No, no, no,_ Carlton panics. _Why are they here? Why are_ they _here?_ Carlton turns his face away as two of his co-workers amble into the hospital room.

"What are you two doing here?" Carlton growls.

The taller of the two, Drew Drimmer, smiles mockingly. "Oh come on, Manny, you know you missed us." They both know that Carlton knows no such thing. Drimmer and his cohort, Kenneth Ewing, got great pleasure in teasing Carlton. They were annoying, callous bullies, but they were also talented art buyers, which meant Carlton was stuck working with them until one of them quit or the museum went broke.

"What. Are. You. Two. Doing. Here?" Carlton repeats. He wants them out. He _needs_ them out before an eavesdropping Shawn starts putting clues together.

"Calm down, Moonface," Kenneth says dryly. "Boss lady sent us; she has some paperwork for you." Kenneth drops a manila folder the beside table as he smirks down at Carlton.

"Great. Thanks. Have a nice day," Carlton snaps.

"Drimmer, he's gotten ruder don't you think?" Kenneth asks Drew slyly.

"Agreed. Isn't there a rule about ugly people and ugly attitudes?" They both chuckle. Carlton sneaks a glance over at the other bed. Drew notices.

"Whoa, Ewing, now we're being rude. Manny has a roommate." Drew walks over to Shawn's side of the room and holds a hand out in front of the blind man. "Hi, there. I'm Drew Drimmer and that's Kenneth Ewing. We're friends of Manny's."

Shawn shakes Drew's hand. "I'm Shawn. Pleased to meet you." He, in fact, doesn't sound pleased at all.

"They're not my friends," Carlton cuts in. "They're my co-workers. And they're leaving. Now."

"Chillax, Manny," Drew says as he moves to stand closer to Shawn. "We're just talking."

"You work with Carlton? At the museum?" Shawn asks.

"That's right," Kenneth replies. "We all work for the head curator at the Santa Barbara Museum. Research, acquisition and the like. I'm sure Mo—Lassiter's told you about it. He's one of our best." Kenneth gives Carlton a look that says he knows he's doing Carlton a favor.

"Carlton's a great guy."

"Yeah, he is. And he really lucked out getting a roommate like you." Drew's voice drips with contempt.

Shawn's face hardens. "Why is that?" he asks.

"Drimmer, leave him alone," Carlton orders. He's gone out of his way to avoid having to reveal himself to Shawn; he won't let these two eternal frat boys blow his cover.

Drew ignores him. "Well, if you haven't noticed, he's not the easiest person to get along with."

"He seems to like me alright."

Drew turns to observe the stricken look on Carlton's face. "So it seems he does."

"Are you going to Washington with him?" Shawn asks.

"Washington?" Kenneth drawls. He turns to stare at Carlton as well.

"Yes, Washington," Carlton mutters darkly to his staring co-workers. He turns to face his roommate. "No," he tells Shawn. "They're staying here."

"Carlton's right," Drew states. "We're not going to Washington. We don't have the same ... eye for beauty that he does." Kenneth and Drew snicker as Carlton simmers.

"Drimmer," Carlton says darkly. "Shut up."

"Why is that funny?" Shawn asks the two men.

"It's an art joke," Drew states.

"No reason," Kenneth says at the same time. "We'll head out now; we just wanted to drop off those papers. There's a lot to do before Washington." He turns to whisper something in Drew's ear that has the other man smirking maliciously. "Have a good night, Moonface." He nods in Shawn's direction. "Shawn."

Shawn doesn't reply. He turns to face Carlton as the two men leave the hospital room. The sound of their grating laughter can be heard echoing down the hallway.

Carlton is shaking from either fear or anger, he's not entirely sure which. _Man on the moon. Ugly face, ugly attitude. An eye for beauty._ Those comments. The nicknames. They were obvious, _so damn obvious_ , that he's certain Shawn's figured everything out by now.

His chest is tight and he can't speak. Carlton doesn't know why his two bastard co-workers didn't call him out on the Washington lie. Or rather, he knows there's no good reason behind it. This will come back to embarrass him later he knows it.

Shawn has remained quiet, as if he can sense that Carlton's going through some sort of turmoil. "Carlton?" he begins quietly.

Carlton doesn't answer. Can't answer, actually. He knows if he tries, he'll cry or rage or do something else that will make this hole he's in deeper.

"You're co-workers seem...nice."

"Stop, Shawn," Carlton whispers.

"Fine. You know, I'm pretty good at reading people, Carlton, and they read 'ASSHOLE' in all-caps."

Carlton closes his eyes. Hopefully, Shawn won't say any more. He'll write off Drew's and Kenneth's comments as the remarks of jealous douche bags.

"They both have a weird sense of humor, though."

Even though he knows Shawn can't see him, Carlton brings a hand up to cover the left side of his face.

"'Manny'?" Shawn repeats curiously and something in Carlton snaps. He doesn't know if it's from the stress of his co-workers visit or simply hearing _that_ name from Shawn's mouth.

"Yes, Manny!" he roars. "They call me Manny. It's a joke. Get it?"

"No, I don't," Shawn begins. "What is going on with you?"

 _He knows. How could he not know?_ "I'm not stupid, Shawn."

"I never said you were. What are you talking about, Carlton?" Shawn is pleading, his voice sounds confused and desperate.

"You're not stupid either, Shawn." Carlton says as he throws his blankets back and slides out of his bed.

"Are you leaving?" Shawn asks, alarm apparent in his voice. "You _are_ mad. What's wrong?"

Carlton grabs his robe off the foot of his bed and shoves his arms in the sleeves. He throws open the door, but before he storms out he turns to look back at Shawn. The other man is sitting up in his bed, the crisp white of his bandages mocking him.

"Carlton?" Shawn asks again, voice cracking.

"Don't ever call me Manny again."

* * *

  
It takes Carlton six hours to work up the nerve to go back to his room. He spends those hours wandering the halls of the hospital. He takes in the childish art of the pediatric wing and snacks on a bag of stale pretzels he finds in the cafeteria. But it's the maternity ward that finally cools his anger. He studies the perfectly symmetrical faces of the hospital's newborn babies and the sight breaks his heart.

He's put up with a lot of crap since the day he lost half his face. He's become an office joke and his family's object of pity. The hospital offered a protective bubble from the stares of the real world, but his cold-hearted co-workers had burst that bubble. And Shawn had been the one to bear the brunt of his frustration and misery.

Carlton knows he has to apologize. For his explosion and for the cool treatment he'd been giving Shawn in the week leading up to it.

It's midnight when he finally returns to his room and to Shawn. The other man is sound asleep, taking deep, even breaths. His bed is still raised at a slight incline. Carlton should let him sleep, but he knows that if he doesn't apologize now, he never will. Carlton is cowardly enough to lie to Shawn about his face and his job, but he won't risk losing him just yet.

Carlton pads softly over to the man's bed and eases out of his robe. He lifts the blankets up and settles himself next to Shawn. His body is warm, pliant and gloriously human.

Shawn gives a few sleepy sighs before stiffening. He looks different this close up. His brown hair is streaked with blond and looks as silky as a spider's cobweb. His tanned skin is cooled underneath the weak moonlight. He's even more beautiful than Carlton had first thought.

"Who's there?" Shawn asks as he attempts to wiggle away.

Carlton shushes him. "It's just me," he whispers. Shawn relaxes into him.

"What are you doing?" Shawn whispers, his voice still husky from sleep.

"I'm sorry for getting angry with you," Carlton breathes.

"You don't have to apologize. I—"

Carlton shushes him again. "Please. Just let me make it up to you."

Shawn mumbles in sleepy confusion. Carlton leans over him, his breath ghosting over Shawn's nose, his lips, his jaw. He inhales deeply, breathing in a scent that is a mixture of milled soap, aloe vera and pure Shawn. He presses his face into Shawn's neck and curses himself for not even being able to give the man he wants more than anything a proper kiss. Instead, he sets his mouth as firmly as he can and presses them to Shawn's neck. Shawn sighs in content.

He feels Shawn bring his arms up and pull him closer, nuzzling his nose in his hair. Carlton can hear Shawn's heart beat, hear the rush of air leave his lungs as he breathes in and out, and all he can think is how amazing this man is. How there is no way, outside of this hospital room, he'd ever give him the time of day. Never allow him to be this close. This is the best thing he'll ever have to love—to _being_ loved—and he wants no make sure that neither one of them ever forgets it.

The sex is quick and messy. Carlton fumbles at the waist of Shawn's pajama pants, slipping his hand into under the thin cotton of the pants and into Shawn's boxers. The other man is already half-hard and it only takes a few more strokes to get him fully stiff.

Carlton's hands are cool as they wrap around Shawn who is all heat and silky smoothness. Shawn bucks as the other man tightens his grip and thrusts into his hand.

"Carlton," Shawn pants, arching off the hospital bed. His thrusts quicken. Carlton raises himself on his elbow to better watch Shawn's face as the sensations take him over.

"You're so beautiful. Do you know that?" Carlton mumbles before moving to press his lips over Shawn's bandaged eyes. "You're perfect. So beautiful. So perfect. So fucking perfect." Carlton wants to cry, but he won't. Not in front of Shawn. He won't ruin this gift for him.

They move together—fast and desperate—until Shawn comes in Carlton's hand. Carlton holds his shuddering body as he rides out his climax. Eventually, he relaxes into bliss and melts into Carlton's side.

Carlton waits until Shawn's breathing slows before he pulls away. He reaches over to Shawn's nightstand for tissues and gently cleans the both of them. He kisses Shawn's forehead, his bandages, the top of his head. As much skin as he can before he replaces the blind man's pajama bottoms. He rolls off Shawn and rises from the bed, eliciting a whimper from the other man.

"Carlton," Shawn calls out huskily, "I felt you. You're still...If you want I can..."

Carlton feels his throat tighten. Shawn wants him, but that would mean letting him touch him, touch his face. Pleasuring him was a big enough risk. Carlton knows better than to push his luck.

"I'll be fine," he says in a voice that is anything but. "Go to sleep, Shawn."

Shawn gives another contented murmur. "'Kay. Thank you."

Carlton makes his way back to his bed. His body is throbbing with adrenaline and need, but he ignores it. He relaxes underneath his thin blanket and waits for the peaceful sound of a sleeping Shawn. He had no idea what prompted him to apologize the way that he did. It was dangerous to assume that Shawn would even want it, much less consent to it. But once he got next to the other man, got drunk off his senses, he wanted more.

"Good night, Shawn," Carlton whispers in the dark room. "You've helped me more than you'll ever know."

* * *

  
Carlton expects that night to make things awkward between Shawn and himself. But, miraculously, the tension between them dissipates. Neither one of them mentions the sex nor the fight that lead up to it.

They resume their friendly (read: flirtatious) banter.

They also resume the sex.

It only happens three more times in the two weeks before Carlton has to leave and each time, Carlton refuses to let Shawn pleasure him.

The last time they lay together is the night before Carlton checks out of the hospital.

"Stay the whole night with me?" Shawn whispers as Carlton sits up. They never spent the night in the same bed for fear of being discovered during a vitals check.

"Shawn, I can't—"

"Oh, come on," Shawn purrs seductively. "Juliet is the only person we have to worry about walking in on us, and I think she would like it."

"Shawn—"

"Please?"

That's all Carlton needs to hear. He relaxes into Shawn's side and hugs him close. He doesn't want to leave the bed any more than Shawn wants him to. This is his last night. Their last night. He'll never forget it; he prays Shawn won't either.

"Shawn," he says, breaking the silence. "What is this?"

"What is what?" Shawn asks half-asleep.

"This," he breathes into Shawn's ear. "Us. This thing between us."

Shawn smiles and grabs his hand. "Don't, Carlton. Everything doesn't need a label. Just enjoy it."

Carlton needs a label; he needs to ensure this will get filed away in his mind for all time.

"Are you enjoying it?" Carlton asks softly.

"Immensely," Shawn sighs.

"Will you remember me?"

No answer. Carlton looks to see Shawn's face relaxed in sleep.

"Don't forget me, Shawn," he asks. "Please."

* * *

  
It's been three weeks since Carlton's last seen Shawn. Three weeks since he's checked out of the safety of the hospital. Three weeks since he's felt any semblance of normalcy.

He's gone back to work at the museum, researching and buying works of art. Carlton's never been comfortable telling other people about his job. He knows it seems ridiculous; a man as deformed as he judging beauty. Still, he enjoys it. He loves how art has no single idea of beauty. What one may view as ugly, another may view as appealing. Carlton wishes physical beauty worked this way.

It's a sunny Tuesday and the office is in good spirits. The glorious weather results in most of the museum's small office staff going out for lunch. Carlton quickly eats his packed lunch at his desk, then sprints to the museum's basement to spend the rest of the hour catching up on some reading. He rarely leaves the building's back offices, preferring the quiet of the art library to the hassle of rowdy school tour groups and gawking senior citizens.

His hopes for a silent and productive work period are dashed, however, when his co-worker comes strolling into the library.

"Hey, Moonface. Your blind hospital roommate is upstairs in the main hall," Kenneth tells him, plastic bags of food hanging off one arm.

"Shawn?" he asks. There's no way it could be Shawn. As far as Carlton knew, Shawn was still in the hospital. And as far as Shawn knew, Carlton was across the country, curating for a federal collection.

"He's wants to know your address. He was hard to recognize at first. He looks different with his bandages off."

"Bandages? Can he see?"

Kenneth just smirks at him.

Carlton panics. "Tell him you don't know. I left before I could tell you all."

"Left for D.C.," Kenneth finishes.

Carlton's face flushes in embarrassment. "Tell him whatever you want. Just tell him you can't reach me."

"Sure thing," Kenneth heads back upstairs to where Shawn awaits. Carlton wants to see him. He wants to see what the man looks like outside the hospital, whole and healthy. And despite the knowledge that Shawn has no idea what he looks like, that he could go up and sneak a peek without the man being any wiser, he can't muster up the courage to do it.

Carlton freezes as he hears two bodies make their way down the narrow stairway. Voices (male voices, both familiar) go back and forth in conversation.

"He's right in there," Carlton hears Kenneth say. "It's a good thing you stopped by this week. You almost missed him."

"Shit!" Carlton swears. Kenneth had done a number of hurtful things to Carlton; but leading a seeing-Shawn to him is one of the worst. The two men stop outside the door to the library.

"Thank you," Carlton hears Shawn say. He's stuck. He can't leave the library without having to go past Shawn. Frantic, he bolts to the corner of the small library, standing so that his face is hidden by the book stacks. Maybe if he's lucky (although he's never been lucky before) Shawn will just say what he needs to say and leave.

The library door creaks as it's pushed open. "Carlton? Are you in here?" Shawn asks, his voice eager.

Carlton opens his mouth to answer, only to find that his throat feels so tight he can't get any words through it.

"Carlton?" Shawn asks again. Shawn comes to stand behind him and places a hand on his shoulder. It feels like a brand. "Is that you?"

"Shawn," Carlton finally rasps out.

"Carlton," Shawn replies, squeezing his shoulder. "I thought that dark blob looked like you."

"What are you doing here?" Carlton whispers.

"I came by to see if any of your friends could give me your address or phone number or something. Imagine my surprise when I learned you were still here." Shawn leans into Carlton's side. He's close enough that the other man can see him in his peripheral vision. He looks the same from what Carlton can tell. His hair is still scruffy and sticking up in places. And his eyes, once hidden by layers of cotton bandages, are now protected only by a pair of dark glasses.

"You can see now." It's not a question.

Shawn laughs softly. "Well, sort of. I can see colors, shapes and movement. Still can't read anything or drive, though. Gus had to bring me down here."

"Faces?"

"I've always been great with faces," Shawn leans in even closer. Carlton can feel his breath on his neck. "I've missed you, Carlton. I thought I'd never get to see you."

Carlton jumps, startling Shawn. Before the other man can question his actions, he snatches a book from the pile next to him and holds it up so that it shields his face. "Well, here I am."

Shawn snickers. "You're still as strange as ever." Shawn tries to step around Carlton and peer over the book he has grasped in his hands.

Carlton turns away. "Sorry, Shawn. I'm ... buried. Lots of work. Maybe we could do this another time?"

Shawn follows Carlton as he turns. "'Another time?' I haven't seen you in weeks, Carlton."

"So what's a few more days?"

Shawn is silent. "Are you serious?" he asks, his voice hard.

Carlton sighs. He's being rude. Actually, more than rude. He's being an ass. But Shawn is too close. Too close and too visually enabled for Carlton to think straight.

"Look, Shawn, I'm sor—"

"Carlton, is there a reason you don't want to see me?"

"No, I'm just very busy."

"I'm not asking you to take me out to lunch. Just turn around and say hello."

"Shawn—"

"Carlton, turn around." The order is soft but firm. Carlton has to follow it. He has no more options as he knows Shawn is not above physically whipping him around and snatching the book from his hands.

Shawn's gasp is audible as Carlton turns to face him. Carlton is disgusted with himself for being hurt. Of course, Shawn would be repulsed. He should know by now that his face is nothing short of freakish.

Shawn takes off his dark glasses. His eyebrows, which must have been burned off, are just stubble. The skin around his eyes is pink and moist with what Carlton assumes is antibacterial ointment. Carlton can see the other man's eyes clearly now. They are hazel, bright and so damn piercing. They are also focused intently on Carlton's face. Carlton fights the urge to turn away. Shawn wanted to see him, so he would let him see.

"What happened to your face?" Shawn asks softly.

"Cancer," Carlton replies. He looks at the ground, at the stacks of books behind Shawn, anything but the pitying look playing across Shawn's face. Five years and he's finally figured out that pity is worse than disgust. Far worse.

"Cancer?" Shawn repeats, confusion marring his face.

"I had cancer. It attached itself to the bone under my eye. They had to remove most of the bone and muscle."

"Are you okay?"

Carlton gives a caustic laugh. "I'm cancer-free. Wouldn't say I'm okay."

"Does it hurt?" Shawn takes a step toward him, raising his hand as if to touch his face. Carlton takes a step back.

"Only when people look at it," Carlton deadpans.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Shawn's voice lowers.

Carlton shrugs. He has to maintain an air of nonchalance. He can't let Shawn see how much his reaction has hurt him. "Couldn't find a way to fit it into the conversation."

"You think this is funny? You lied. You lied to me."

Carlton ignores the accusation. "Why did you come here?"

"I've already told you. I wanted to see if any of your coworkers could help me contact you in D.C." Shawn freezes as the truth of the situation dawns on him. His face reddens in anger. "You never got a job in D.C., did you? You have no plans of leaving the city at all. You just didn't want me contacting you."

"You shouldn't have come here," Carlton repeats

"You weren't supposed to be here," Shawn shouts. "I just wanted to call you. Maybe get the chance to see you."

"Well, now you have. Sorry it's not what you expected."

"'Sorry it's not what—?'" Shawn repeats incredulously. "Is that why you think I'm upset?"

"It was clear from your face, Shawn."

"Alright, I'll admit it: I wasn't expecting you to look like this. But that's not why I'm upset. You _lied_ to me."

"Stop saying that!" Carlton has had enough of being on the defensive. "I did nothing wrong, Shawn. I've been around enough people to know how they react to me. Forgive me for not wanting to subject myself to that."

"What are you talking about?"

"Think about it, Shawn!" he explodes. "How many people came to visit me when I was in the hospital? How many friends do you think I have? How many _loves_ do you think I have?" Carlton's voice cracks as he says this but he ignores it. He's strong. He won't cry. He refuses to cry. "You have your friends and your charisma and your looks. You can walk out that door and get anyone you want. You have no idea how hard people can be. You have no idea what I have to deal with."

Shawn laughs, but the sound is humorless and bitter. "You are such a hypocrite," Shawn begins. "You're mad at me 'cause you think I'm judging your face, but you have no problem judging me."

"I know how people are, Shawn. You're no different."

For just a second, Shawn looks like he's been hit. "Fine," he says, his voice strangely calm. He winces, the florescent lights and his own powerful emotions obviously irritating his eyes. Shawn puts the dark glasses back on. "I just wanted to speak with you. I've done that, so now I'll go." He turns his back to Carlton and starts for the door.

"I'm not wrong, Shawn," Carlton repeats sadly. His breathing is heavy and he can feel the fight draining out of him. "I gave you want you needed: A friend while you were afraid. I just didn't...I couldn't..."

Shawn shakes his head. "You have no idea what I need, Carlton." And with that, he pulls the door open and leaves the library. Carlton listens to the sound of Shawn's footsteps stomping up the stairs until they fade away.

Carlton falls into his seat and buries his head in his arms. This was why he lied. This is why he pushed everyone away. Some things, some hideous, ugly things, were just too much to expect people to accept.

"Lassiter?" a deep voice calls out from the doorway. It's Ewing. Carlton has no idea how long he's been there or how much he's heard. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Carlton tells him, his eyes burning with unshed tears. "I'll be fine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drimmer is obviously Drimmer from "Lassie Did a Bad, Bad Thing," while Ewing was the federal agent from "Psy. v. Psy." I made up their first names. The Boss Lady is not-so-obviously Karen Vick. I wondered if the two guys' nickname for Carlton was too subtle. "The Man on the Moon" is the face people see in the craters of the moon. Kinda cruel, I know, but I wanted them to be jerks.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlton knows it's selfish of him, but he can't help but hope that Shawn never gains his sight back. For [](http://alli-bialystock.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://alli-bialystock.livejournal.com/) **alli_bialystock**   who wanted Insecure!Lassiter and a bit for myself who wanted to write something sappy and cliche. 

  
There is nothing that can lift Carlton out of the funk he's found himself in since his blow up with Shawn. Not the feel of the sun on his skin as the dank weather gives way to warming rays and spring breezes. Not the sound of his boss praising him for another successful acquisition. And most certainly not that fact that his co-worker Ewing has suddenly taken it upon himself to become Carlton's bestest buddy.

Alright, maybe _that_ does evoke some curiosity. Carlton's not 100 percent sure of what's behind it, but he doesn't complain when Ewing starts calling him by his name nor when he offers to treat him to a sandwich at a nearby deli.

"What for?" Carlton questions. (He may not complain but he'll forever be suspicious of the man.)

Ewing shrugs. The gesture looks odd coming from someone who carries himself with an air of arrogance so thick that it could be considered smog. "Just thought you might be hungry; you've been cooped up in the library for hours."

Carlton declines. He knows (or is at least very, very, _very_ sure) that Ewing's acting out of guilt. They don't talk about it, of course, as they're both still embarrassed. Carlton by the fact that Ewing witnessed him getting more or less dumped by Shawn, and Ewing by the fact he lead said dumper straight to him.

"Well," Ewing begins, as he backs away, hands shoved in his pockets. "If you get hungry, I'm right upstairs."

Carlton doesn't reply, just watches as the other man goes back to the main level and turns back to his stack of books. Ewing had been right about one thing; Carlton _had_ become even more reclusive since the confrontation. He'd stopped doing his work at his desk and taken to camping out in the library. For some reason, Carlton is even more sensitive to stares than he's ever been. Once off work, he'd head straight for home. No stops to eat. No stops for gas. He can't even face the cameras at the ATM in his present state. He was the most miserable he's ever been in five years.

He slams the book he'd been thumbing through shut. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He had wanted memories with Shawn to use as relief during his bouts of self-pity, not for them to drag him down further.

Carlton sighs. He won't be getting any work done. Not here. Not where the one man he'd wanted more than anything else had looked at him with all the pity one would give a dying animal on the side of the road.

Carlton gathers his books, his papers and his misery and heads back upstairs. He decides to skip out on the rest of the afternoon. There is nothing he's working on that can't wait until tomorrow and he's certain nobody around the museum will miss him.

His desk is covered in books, file folders and papers, so he completely misses to the small magazine clipping placed precariously near the edge. And, as he carelessly tosses the pile of library books and papers onto the desk, he doesn't notice as the small slip of paper, its image completely black and white except for a lone bright yellow dandelion, flutters from his desktop and falls into the nearby waste basket.

* * *

  
Mornings are Carlton's favorite time of the day. They have that sense of peace and solitude that Carlton longs for during the rest of the day. While the rest of the world sleeps in, minds drowsy and muddled, Carlton exists in his own tranquil world. He can stand in his front yard, shoeless and unafraid, and simply be. His breathes in the early morning smell of wet grass and wiggles his toes in the damp, green blades. This is as bold as he'll be today and he relishes the freedom.

He has to head into work early today to make up for skipping out early yesterday, but for now, he enjoys the quiet of the morning. Carlton knows that the world is not as peaceful at 6 a.m. as he likes to pretend it is. He knows that a car could still drive by, full of gaping passengers. He knows that his neighbor could decide to get an early start on some yard work and come disturbing his retreat with his loud, growling riding mower. He knows that the anybody could go waltzing down the street and get a gander at the freak with the ugly face standing barefoot on the dewy grass.

He knows that because apparently someone already has.

There near the end of his front walk, sticking out from underneath his newspaper, are two tendrils of white ribbon.

Carlton shakes his head and gingerly picks up the paper. He breathes a sigh of relief. The girls across the street had been playing in his yard again. They'd held a mock wedding if the smashed bouquet of thick-stemmed dandelions were any clue. The bundle had been tied together tightly with creamy white ribbon. The workmanship is rather impressive for elementary-schoolers.

He knows the two pig-tailed girls favor his yard because of his well-kept flower beds and small stone fountain. (His yard is his haven and likes to dress it up as such.) The two acted out tales of romance and adventure on his lawn since their own yard was muddied and overgrown. Add the fact that he never bothered to chase the girls away and it was a wonder children from all over the neighborhood weren't tumbling across his lawn.

Carlton snorts at the pitiful spring of weeds. "At least they didn't mess with the marigolds," he mutters before kicking the flowers away.

* * *

  
Carlton wonders if he's gone from being cursed by God to becoming his new plaything. That's the only thing that can explain what he sees when he arrives at work later that morning. There, leaning back in his chair with his khakied legs resting on top of the scattered papers, is Shawn. He holds a hand above his eyes, which were again hidden by dark glasses, and tilts his head up to meet Carlton's gaze.

"What are you doing here?" Carlton asks incredulously.

"Nice to see you, too," Shawn answers curtly, looking him up and down. Carlton's self-consciousness comes out from hiding and hits him square in the chest. "You're a hard man to reach, Carlton. You know that?"

Carlton lowers his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Shawn swings his legs to the floor and spins around in Carlton's chair. "I've been leaving you messages since yesterday."

"Why?" Carlton mumbles. "Need to yell at me some more?”

"No," Shawn answers simply.

"Well, what do you want?" Carlton asks.

Shawn stands and turns to look at Carlton, his eyes unreadable behind his shades. "I have a question for you. That day Gus came by, you weren't with the doctor, were you?"

There's no use lying now. The man already hated him. "No, I wasn't."

"...I see."

Carlton wants to ask him why that was of any importance. Did the man need more reasons to despise him?

Shawn exhales loudly. "C'mon. We're going out for breakfast," he tells Carlton.

"I don't go _out_ ," Carlton mumbles.

"Today will be an exception," Shawn says firmly. He pushes the pile of papers Carlton had been studying the day before to the floor. "You owe me."

* * *

  
Carlton cannot believe he's doing this. He can't remember the last time he went to a restaurant. A real restaurant with hostesses and waitresses and busboys and noisy, staring patrons. True, it's only 9 o' clock in the morning and the only other patrons in the restaurant are an elderly couple sharing a carafe of orange juice, but the strain on his nerves is still excruciating. Shawn flits about the restaurant's trendy dining room easily, brushing off the hostess' offering of a small table near a large picture window for a small booth in a dimly lit corner.

Carlton guesses that the hostess lets Shawn get away with it because she finds him charming and good-looking. She smiles at him and tells him that their waitress will be along shortly. She forgets to give Carlton a menu before she leaves.

Shawn takes his time reading his menu, straining to see the small letters as he holds it close to his face. Carlton sits awkwardly, torn between wanting to help Shawn and wanting to bolt right out the restaurant's doors.

After about five minutes, Shawn drops the menu on the table and slides it over to Carlton. "Order anything you want," he tells him as he fiddles with his shades.

"I'm not hungry," Carlton tells him.

"That's a lie. You don't eat breakfast before work and you don't leave for lunch."

"How...how do you know that?"

Shawn shoots him a cocky smile. "A friend of yours told me."

"I don't have any friends."

"Don't be ridiculous, Carlton. Of course you do."

Their waitress comes bounding up to their table before Carlton can refute Shawn's claims. She is tall and long-legged and wears her gorgeous mane of red hair pulled back in a pony tail that seems to whip around her head at dangerous speeds.

"How are y'all doing today?" she chirps. Her eyes widen as she takes in the sight of Carlton's face and she quickly turns to smile warmly at Shawn. "What can I get y'all?"

"A three-egg omelet for me, with extra, extra, extra cheese," Shawn says, returning her smile.

The waitress gives small snort of a laugh. "No cholesterol worries, I see."

Shawn leans toward her and peers over the rim of his shades. "Not at all, ma'am. I'm as strong as a bull, steady and possess great stamina." Carlton rolls his eyes at Shawn's lecherous behavior. It has been confirmed: Shawn cannot _not_ flirt.

The waitress' pony tail goes flying as she shakes her head in exasperation. "You're shameless," she tells him.

"That's one of my best features."

She smiles coquettishly before asking, "And what'll your friend have?"

The lascivious grin on Shawn's face twists into a frown. "Why don't you ask him yourself?"

The waitress blushes furiously before turning to look at Carlton. "I'm sorry, sir. What can I get you?" She holds her order pad like a shield close to her face, blocking Carlton's view of her eyes.

"Just coffee," Carlton tells her. She scribbles at her pad and zips away before Carlton can add more.

"Well, she was _pleasant_ ," Shawn drawls.

"She was normal, Shawn," Carlton tells him. "That's how most people react to me. My face isn't the most engaging conversation starter."

"That's why you lie about it."

Carlton can feel his stomach drop. "Is that why you brought me here? To laugh at me?"

Shawn shakes his head slowly. "Why would I do that?"

"Why do you think?"

Shawn doesn't answer. He stares at Carlton before sighing and reaching into his pants pocket. He pulls out a small, intricately folded piece of paper and places it in front of Carlton.

"What's that?" Carlton asks, defenses up.

"Open it and see."

Carlton grabs the thick paper and carefully begins to pull apart the folds. Shawn watches him as he flattens the page on the small table. An oil-pastel dandelion, waxy and bright, blooms from the center of the page. Its gold and yellow petals explode from the lime-green stem. Above the flower, someone had written a small poem in black ink.

 

> _Roses are prized_  
>  and dandelions are weeds,  
>  but I'd skip the rose's thorns  
>  for the dandelion's seeds.

"Dandelions?" Carlton thinks back to the sad bouquet he found on his porch this morning. "You gave me the dandelions?"

Shawn smirks. "I thought I'd hand deliver this one."

" _This one_?" Carlton questions.

Shawn gives him a look. "I got your friend from work to give you the first one. I got your address from Juliet so I could leave the others."

"What friend?" Carlton asks again. "You mean _Ewing_?"

"Do you have any other work friends?" Shawn asks him sardonically.

"Shawn," Carlton begins. His throat is tight and he can feel his pulse quicken. He rereads the short rhyme. "This...this doesn't make any sense."

Shawn gives him a sheepish grin. It's the first smile he's seen on the other man's face since all morning. "I'm an artist, not a poet."

"What does this mean?" Carlton knows better than to get his hopes up, but he feels them rising anyway.

"It means," Shawn says before sighing heavily, "that I'm sorry. Sorry for getting angry with you. And...I miss you. I want to be with you again."

Carlton can feel all the air rush out of his lungs. "'Again?' I thought you hated me," he says softly.

At that, Shawn removes his shades. He winces slightly before he raises his eyes to look at Carlton. "I wanted to. I _tried_ to. But you're...you're hard to hate, Carlton."

"Why?" Carlton whispers.

"'Why?'" Shawn laughs to himself at that. "Because you have a nice voice. Because you hate _Ziggy._ Because you let me touch your face. Because you make me feel brave even when I know I'm not." Shawn looks down and begins to play with his flatware. "Need any other reasons?"

Carlton can feel his face go warm. "Don't tease me like that, Shawn. You can't feel that way."

"Why can't I?"

"Because," Carlton sputters. "Because my face...," he gestures dumbly at his crumbled cheek. "I look hideous, Shawn. I'm a monster. I can't take you out. I won't impress any of your friends...I don't deserve you" He chokes up as he says the last part. He's thought these things about himself dozens of times; he's never said them out loud.

"Do you believe those things, Carlton?" Shawn asks gently.

"What?"

"Do you believe those things? When you look at yourself— _yourself_ , not your face—do you believe all those things to be true? Because if you do," Shawn continues before Carlton can answer, "I'll let you get back to work and I'll never bother you again."

He can feel Shawn's gaze as it bears down on him and Carlton can only lower his eyes in response. Strong fingers clasp his chin and force him to look up.

"Look at yourself, Carlton," Shawn says softly. He's holding his shiny, silver spoon up like a hand mirror. Carlton can see his reflection on the utensil's convex surface. He turns away again. Shawn's fingers pull him back.

"Look at yourself, Carlton," he orders again. "Look at yourself and tell me you believe you're all those things."

"I've looked at myself, Shawn. I'm quite familiar with my scars."

Shawn rolls his eyes and thrusts the spoon closer to Carlton's face. "Look," he orders, "and tell me what you see. Tell me you're all those things you think you are."

Carlton looks. His face is even more distorted than normal thanks to the spoon's rounded and scratched surface. His nose stands out, pointed and prominent, as the rest of his face stretches toward the edge of the spoon. His eyes look huge on the spoon, even his bad one. His cheeks, however, become flattened and fuzzy.

"Want to know what I see?" Shawn asks him.

Carlton holds his breath.

"I see eyes. Gorgeous eyes that can apparently see beauty in everything except themselves. I see a mouth. A slightly crooked mouth that, nevertheless, can say and do the most amazing things." Shawn waggles his eyebrows suggestively before reaching out to grab one of Carlton's ears. "And I see some big ears. These are exactly like I imagined them."

Carlton exhales, slow and shaky. His heart feels like it's about to burst right out of his chest. He stares at the spoon and forces himself to see what Shawn sees. He sees his eyes, once his prized feature. The blue of his irises becoming a stormy gray on the spoon's surface. He sees his mouth. His frown is strong and disapproving on one side of his face, broken and weak on the other. He sees his ears. They're big, but they go well with his proportions.

But those things aren't all he sees. Carlton notices his hair. How it used to be inky black, but is now tinged with just the slightest of gray at the temples. He notices his nose. It survived the cancer and surgery relatively unscathed, but looks bigger thanks to the nearby sunken flesh. And for the first time in five years, Carlton sees himself. _All_ of himself. His face, as it appears on that water-spotted spoon, is much more than his missing cheek bone. And if this is what Shawn sees, then maybe...

“You were angry,” Carlton blurts out. “My face. It made you angry.”

Shawn sighs. “I was angry about the lie. I was angry that you didn’t think well of me enough to tell me about your face.”

"You were disappointed," Carlton says quietly.

"That you didn't trust me," Shawn finishes. "If you had let me know the truth, Carlton, I would have let you know that it wouldn't have mattered. And, that I think you are amazing just the way you are."

At that, the most desired admission Carlton's ever wanted to hear, Carlton finds he can't keep the tears in. He knows he must look pathetic, silently crying in front of this man (worse, crying in front of a spoon), but the feel of his warm tears, of his lungs as he takes in deep gulps of air is cathartic. Shawn's fingers wipe the moisture away before moving to graze his sunken cheek.

"Like I keep telling you: You're too hard on yourself, Carlton."

Carlton can't think of a thing to say. There is no word in the English language for the combination of relief, joy and blinding adoration for the man in front of him that Carlton feels. He grabs the hand on his face and turns to press a kiss into the palm.

"I take it that means you forgive me?" Shawn laughs.

"There was nothing to forgive," Carlton says into the palm.

Shawn laughs again, bright and clear and oh so beautiful that Carlton never wants it to end.

It does though, at the sound of a throat clearing. Carlton turns toward the sound (still holding onto Shawn's hand) to see their waitress standing near the table, a tray balanced on one hand.

Pony-tail's face is flushed in embarrassment. She sets Shawn's omelet in front of him, accidentally bumping into his outstretched arm and quickly scampers away.

"Poor girl," Shawn sighs. "I can't help it. I break hearts where ever I go."

The smile on Carlton's face just grows bigger. "Guess I should be careful, huh?"

"No worries, Carlton." Shawn leans forward and places a kiss on Carlton's lips. He crooks the right side of his mouth to compensate for Carlton's wobbly smile. He pulls back, grinning, and sits down to eat his omelet.

And Carlton realizes, for the first time in five years he is happy. Not just happy, _ecstatic_. There is no other place he would rather be than sitting here watching this man eat. He leans forward to do just that before he notices something. "She forgot my coffee," he pouts.

"Girl's not very bright," Shawn says, mouth full of egg.

"You probably made her uncomfortable by getting all handsy with me."

Shawn smiles, his lips looking greasy and delicious. "Perks, remember?"

"Perks?" Carlton grabs Shawn's hand and returns it to his damaged cheek. He turns to nuzzle his face against the other man's knuckles.  "Yeah, I remember."

_FIN_


End file.
